


there are no dead children

by Thorne



Category: Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorne/pseuds/Thorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a difference being something being dead, and something being gone, or maybe there is no difference at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are no dead children

The sunset spills in through the window, over her hands, and slakes them in red light.

When Anthy finally takes the pillow off his face, the color of his skin is almost exactly the shade of the pillow itself; in contrast, his hair spreads out in a startling corona of darkness. He didn't struggle overlong. The sound of his breathing had been like a teakettle in reverse, a combination of soft, high wheezing and whistling that had finally dwindled down to nothing at all.

She brushes his hair back from his face and takes his hand. He sits up, wordless, nameless. With her help, he manages to get off the bed. When his footing is stable, he manages to stand by himself and rest against the wall.

"Go on, now," she tells him.

Through the window, she can see people watching her. There are more than usual. She has counted up to a hundred children whose eyes will remain fixed on her, but their faces share a sameness; they blur like a photograph faded with age. A dripping boy presses river-wet hands to the glass. Further back, there are two other boys with stone-solemn faces, holding swords. Anthy does not worry; they have not yet been born.

There used to be a girl in a ragged red dress, but she's gone now too.

"Go on."

The boy leans heavily against the wall, still silent. His dressing robe hangs loose around him, his fingers idly tug and twitch at the drooping belt.

She still has to make the bed. Some of the sheets have pulled away, the coverlet is slightly rumpled. While she smooths everything to satisfaction, the boy finally makes his way out of the room. She charts his progress through the increasing degree of silence through the house, from hall to stairs to door, and then out into the garden, and there she supposes he will stay.

The young man whose hands have held those of the boy who used to lie in the bed would say that nothing ever truly ceases to exist, and go on to explain it in chalk marks on a board and words like entropy, energy, and eternity. And he is right, because tomorrow he will come to visit, and he will meet a boy, and hold his hands. He will believe that boy exists and so the boy will.

There is a difference being something being dead and something being gone, or maybe there is no difference at all.

The children outside the window fade into dusk like afterimages of light from a camera flash, bleeding away into a dark backdrop. Anthy will see them again; in different places, at different times. Most of them will stay close, although sometimes they don't stay in the same place. Beyond the school is the curling edge of the map; here there be monsters.

The bed is almost perfect now. She tests it with the tips of her fingers, tugs the pillow a little to the right. Yes. There.

She lies down on the bed. Through the window there is distant noise, of bicycles and shinai clacking, of water splashing, of fire crackling, of voices rising and then fading gradually away. Wind makes a louder sound in the roses.

Things may go away, but nothing is ever truly lost. There are no dead children, here or ever.


End file.
